“Stop!”

At a gathering of leaders, he ignored Douglas and drove a fist into my chest, a hammer hitting a temple bell.

“Get out. Demonfolk don’t walk human lands. Get out, you ugly thing.”

A high-rank warrior’s punch sent me three, maybe four meters. I didn’t correct my balance; I let the wind carry me. My skull met the table’s edge, wood biting like a cold cliff. The table flipped. A basin of hot soup crowned me, a scalding waterfall studded with egg petals.

It’s fine. It barely hurts.

Truth is, this degree of disgrace is exactly what I want.

A cold smirk would sell the scene better. Pity my face stays stone.

Vega strolls over, stage tears shimmering like dew. “Oh, my master, why are you so pitiful?”

“I don’t know. I came in good faith, did nothing wrong, and met injustice.”

“Sir Andor, this is a misunderstanding.”

“Lord Douglas, most things aren’t solved by calling them a misunderstanding.”

I stand. Egg fringes cling to my hair like wilted blossoms. I don’t wipe them.

“I respect human rites and faith. Is this how humans repay goodwill?”

“If you forgive his ignorance, you’ll win human approval.”

Douglas speaks sincerely. He’s right: forgive that nose pointing higher than his brow, prove my magnanimity, get praised, then get pressed harder. They bullied Qing back then; they’d keep coming.

That’s the route most protagonists take.

Unfortunately, I’m a villain.

Savior or not, a Demon King stays a Demon King—blood-taste, kill-thirst, leaning toward ruin.

I don’t need human pardon or recognition. I never did.

I’m ‘evil that can be understood.’ Nothing more. I’m no friend of humanity.

I snap my fingers. Vega follows the plan. She pulls a paper from under her skirt like a magician with a moonlit dove.

A proclamation, a call to war, a banner to prove our correctness.

I read aloud. In demonfolk law, an attack—especially on a leader—counts as war to the death. Douglas insists I honor human etiquette; such offense isn’t war.

“Do you know mutual respect?” I answer. “I respect your rites; respect demonfolk customs.”

I reach the enemy’s name and scold Vega; she wrote the organization wrong.

Vega apologizes, then produces another proclamation.

Wrong again.

Finally she dumps a heap of proclamations like autumn leaves, saying, “It’s probably in here somewhere,” and fumbles until the publishing looks official.

A two-person act. I’m telling everyone present: don’t take me for a soft persimmon. I’m ready to wage war on you all.

I announce this too: out of respect for human etiquette, I give their headquarters three days to withdraw. After that, I’ll erase every life and non-life upon that soil.

That sets the tone for partners, showcases my army, and feels good. A perfect slap-the-face drama.

—

It doesn’t happen. Nothing happens.

I’m Andor. Future world-ender, the Endless Demon King Andor. Current bridge-builder, the Savior Demon King Andor. I deal with devils and ally with Divine Beings, an unprincipled efficiency addict.

I’m eating breakfast at home.

The peace pact is just a start, a symbol, a declaration. The follow-up talks matter, and they’ll spark more friction.

Yet no one tries anything extreme with me.

Every leader is shrewd, and they keep a gentleman’s tone of win-win. There’s no rightful reason for the vengeance that should have come.

Troublesome.

I drop the idea of immediate war. Still, to let allies in the Council of Sages taste the Demon King’s weight, I elevate my aspect a notch at every meeting.

To humans, I become long hair flowing into the deep dark behind me, a mask and black coat—mystique wrapped in midnight.

The only hassle: after returning to human shape, my hair doesn’t shrink back. Vega trims it each time.

She says my hair is excellent spell material. She saves every strand. I don’t know what kind, and I don’t care; if it’s useful, fine.

We didn’t hit every target, didn’t flaunt full strength. The final agreements satisfy enough. I don’t chase perfection. We return happily to the Hero Academy.

“Andor, I’m heading out.”

After days of playing the invalid, Stini speaks with reluctant eyes.

She’s heir to the Hero’s bloodline, with striking leaf-green hair and eyes, the one-and-only half-elf. For a bigger fool’s ideal, this fool fought a Divine Being alone.

The Holy Sword lost two-thirds of itself. Her favored right arm died from sustained impact.

Now Stini carries a little cloth bag of sword fragments. Her only left hand grips a long spear I’ve never seen.

Losing the right arm makes her already petite frame look smaller.

“Mm, go on.”

I pause mid-bite and wave at her.

“Why aren’t you even a little reluctant?”

She taps my head with the spear, metal knocking like a woodpecker.

“Whoa, stop. That hurts. I said stop. That spear’s heavy— And you’ve decided already. Me holding you won’t help.”

“At least show something! Act like you hate to see me go.”

“I won’t do anything that embarrassing—” She thumps harder. “Ow, my skull’s cracking. Say what you want. Tell me how you want me to ask you to stay. Talk straight, or how do we avoid tragedies?”

“Uh… I thought you’d know.”

“Give me an example. You want money? How much? Is a ton of gold enough?”

I skewer a lamb chop and take a bite. My teasing tone ignites Stini. She shouts.

“Idiot! I want a goodbye kiss!”

Ah. She said it.

She barges into my room naked without shame, yet stays shy about kissing. There’s that saying: some grow stronger to protect what they cherish, some grow weaker. So I tease her with kiss jokes.

Maybe that’s not the exact quote. The meaning fits.

Sometimes she snaps.

Like now. She flushes scarlet, drops the spear, clamps my head with her left hand like a vise, and twists me toward her.

She kisses hard. A small, agile tongue pries past my teeth and steals the steak I’m chewing.

Then she flees like a thief with moonlight on her heels.

“Mm… mmhmm. The steak tastes nice.”

She’s still flushed, eyes darting, faking calm.

“It’s lamb. A rack shipped by magic from the Western Frontier.”

“I—I know. I was joking.”

“Jokes aside, your skyship ticket to the Wilderness Kingdom Veneli is about to be late.”

She checks her pocket watch, then yells at me.

“Why didn’t you warn me earlier?”

I reject this baseless charge.

“Because… ha, I’m too lazy to invent excuses. I just didn’t feel like it.”

Stini kicks my backside, snatches up the spear, and sprints for the door like a green arrow.

Then I can enjoy breakfast in peace— not.

She’s already outside, yet clings to the doorframe, pitiful eyes on me.

“You’re really not going to ask me to stay?” I knew it.

“What’s the point?” I lift my cup and sip coffee.

“I see…” Stini wilts a little.

“You’ll be back soon. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. Sooner or later, you’ll return, right?”

“…”

“With that in mind, there’s no need for a solemn farewell. It’s not a last meeting. That’s my expectation, and the blessing of many friends—call it a curse if you like. You’re a Hero. You won’t betray what people expect of you, right?”

“…”

“So go. Or you’ll miss the skyship. I won’t say goodbye. I’ll say come back soon. Vega won’t kindly clean your room. If you’re late, dust will claim your sheets. Buy a new set yourself.”

“Andor…”

“Go on, go on. You already owe enough. Don’t waste a skyship ticket too.”

Her steps start hesitant, then grow firmer, the rhythm quickening like a drumbeat down a corridor.

Wait for me. That seems to be the last thing she says.

In the end, we don’t say goodbye.

I set down the cup. Vega’s coffee is a dark fragrance that intoxicates like rain in pine.

Our perfect maid—black hair, black eyes, black heart, black tongue—Miss Vega, walks out of the kitchen and folds her arms around my neck.

She breathes softly at my ear, a warm wind over winter reeds.

“Miss Stini may die.”

“Not ‘may.’ ‘Will.’ Half-ruined, she has no reason to pass the trial of the Divine Beings. She’ll likely die in that nightmare.”

I skewer another lamb chop and lift it to Vega’s lips.

The maid swallows whole, licks the sauce clean, then licks her lips with fox-slick content.

“Delicious,” she says.

I don’t care whether she means the lamb or my saliva.

“My stubborn master, more importantly, we should revise the script. For example… cut all of the Hero girl’s scenes?”

“To regain the gods’ grace, she ran off before healing, ignoring the near-certain end.”

“What a fool. And my cruel master shows no mercy to one resolved to die, not even a formal farewell. Such beautiful cruelty.”

“I gave her a reason to claw toward life. Call it a blessing, call it a curse—two faces of the same coin. Fools birth miracles. They do more than expected.”

“You still expect Miss Stini to pull off the impossible.”

“Yeah.” I keep eating mechanically. Today’s lamb tastes pale, like ash on the tongue. “Expecting the Hero—what’s wrong with that?”